Unfinished Business
by Museismyobsession
Summary: The young Holmes, blinded by the necessity of rebuilding their relationship, didn't see the doctor's desire for vengeance. He longed to make Sherlock burn with heartache, the same he had felt when his wife passed away in his arms. And he knew how.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Some things are not meant to be.

People seem to live in an illusion, somewhere they can choose which path to follow, somewhere they can build the lives they want, somewhere they can cheat death, somewhere destiny is just but a word.

Sherlock knows best. He has learned his lesson.

There was a time Sherlock Holmes - the world's only consulting detective and self-proclaimed sociopath - lived in that fantasy. If you had asked him a few years ago he would have answered arrogantly : " Destiny is just term invented by petty humans who don't want to take responsibility for their actions. They conceived an abstract power where they could place all their frustrations and blame for all the mistakes they had made during their boring lives."

But the truth had presented itself in front of Sherlock in a most devastating manner.

Mary's death felt like a sign. It was time his relationship with John became what it should have been from the beginning. It was his chance to finally act on his emotions and show John he was worth fighting for, after all they had stood together through the suffering and devastation they had had to endure during the last years, it seemed only right to move their relationship forward to the next step.

Sherlock was not exactly ecstatic when she died, mind you. John and Rosie were hurting and he couldn't help but share their pain.

He had fallen in love with Rosamund instantly, the first time he laid his eyes upon her tiny sleeping figure inside the hospital's cot he saw in her newborn features a reflection of the man he held so dearly in his heart. He would give anything to keep that defenceless being from getting hurt, even his life.

Obviously, he didn't let this show.

John barely let him touch her. If he was busy and had to drop Rosie with someone, he checked on everyone before contacting Sherlock. He called Mrs Hudson, Molly, Harry, and sometimes even Sarah before he settled for Sherlock.

John did not trust him with Rosie.

Things were not like they were before Moriarty, the fall, and Mary. John had not moved back to Baker Street. There was no 'the two of us against the rest of the world' anymore.

But they were trying.

At least Sherlock was.

John's physical and emotional distance tore the detective's heart apart. Sherlock knew John blamed him for everything even though the army doctor tried to conceal his discomfort towards the young Holmes. So he tried to redeem himself, he let John take whatever he needed from him, he let him beat him physically and psychologically.

If fixing John Watson meant for him to break the few pieces left of his soul, then so be it.

Everyone thought the detective was not capable of feeling anything, they believed him some kind of heartless creature that lived for , a freak. They couldn't be more mistaken. Sherlock doesn't feel things the same way others do, that much is true. He doesn't let emotions take over his mind, he has to be in complete control to solve crimes, he can't allow himself to be distracted, one simple mistake can cost a life or the chance of giving the victims the justice they deserve.

But there were times where Sherlock would indulge his heart and let his emotions flow.

On these rare occasions the young man would feel so intensely, emotion in its purest form would cascade over Sherlock's sanity. He would let his fears and insecurities run free and the walls around him crumble. At times it was so overwhelming Sherlock had to fall back into the black pit created by drugs to get away from the chaos in his mind.

John had been the only one capable of destroying the intricate fortification that Sherlock Holmes had created at a very young age, when an innocent child had discovered the horrors and pain shrouded in the darkness of this merciless reality. Victor Trevor's death had marked Sherlock for the rest of his life, his first friend killed by his own sister in a fit of jealousy. Had Victor never been his friend he would probably still be alive, he would have grown into a young man with a bright future ahead of him. But meeting the young Holmes had blown away all his possibilities. Sherlock had given up sentiment entirely after Victor, he had sworn he would never become attached again. And had been successful.

Until John.

After the incident with Eurus, their relationship was civilised, John talked to Sherlock with ease and it almost felt normal. Almost. Everybody could sense the ghosts that haunted them, the traumas that made them tip-toe around each other, careful not to step on the mines hidden between them. The young Holmes, blinded by the necessity of rebuilding their relationship, didn't see the doctor's desire for vengeance. He longed to make Sherlock burn with heartache, the same he had felt when his wife passed away in his arms.

And he knew how.

After solving a case they had been investigating for five days, John's behaviour took a turn. In the beginning, Sherlock attributed this change to the lack of sleep and the days without a meal that hadn't come out of a vending machine.

They found themselves in a marginal neighbourhood in the outskirts of London after a 17-year-old boy had been found dead in an abandoned warehouse. It should have been easy to solve. Nevertheless, there were no official records, her mother had died 3 years ago, her father had disappeared before he was even born and had close to none acquaintances. Apparently he did not attend school as they were unable to find a centre in London with a student that fit their victim's profile. It was like the kid never existed.

But the consulting detective knew perfectly well where to find those who didn't wish to be found.

Sherlock's homeless network had proved itself useful countless of times, and this time was no less. They provided with a name. Adam Kane. It seemed the boy - known as Megan by the other vagabonds - had a boyfriend a few years older than him, fifteen to be exact. Kane was a successful businessman with a penthouse in central London, there could have been a million reasons for him to kill his young lover, to protect his career, to avoid problems with the police as he was dating a minor, etc. but it was obvious he hadn't murdered the mysterious teenager. As soon as the detective sat his eyes on the man he knew he hadn't done it. The love and sorrow were crystal clear in all the businessman's features. The wrinkles in his thousand pounds suit, the loosened tie, the reddened eyes from sleepless nights, tousled hair. It turns out he didn't know the kid was dead, he had hired a private detective to find him but had been unsuccessful. "I did not do it. You have to believe me when I tell you Megan was the most important person in my life. I would give anything, anything to get him back!" Kane groaned vehemently. " I do not see myself with anyone else other than him, he was my future." He smiled sadly, looking disturbingly calm, almost lifeless.

Sherlock immediately related to Adam.

He set all his efforts to find the responsible for Megan's death. He craved to ease the man's pain in someway, although he would probably never recover from this.

After two restless days of running around London trying to find clues that could lead them to the real identity of the victim they ran into a surprise. A freelance journalist claimed he had proof that an important member of the Conservative Party, Alistair Barnes, had a hidden past. Mr. Barnes was the poster boy for rectitude. The Tory came from a wealthy family, he had studied in the best schools and universities, he didn't drink alcohol, didn't smoke or do drugs, had being celibate until he had married a girl just as perfect as him.

None of this would matter to John or Sherlock if it weren't for the small fact that their victim and this politician shared genetics.

Megan was Alistair Barnes's estranged son.

It turns out the man was not as perfect as everyone believed him to be. A year before graduating from university he had met a girl, Megan. She was not rich nor religious, she was rather liberal and was a member of the university's feminist group. Everything the Barnes family did not want for their prodigal son.

Alistair saw in her the opportunity to irritate his parents.

Megan saw right through him. She did not fall for his manipulations and gently turned down his advances. The young Barnes fell in love with her in that moment, and this time it was sincere, or so he thought.  
He tried to redeem himself after that. He went to see her everyday after class, they studied together in the library, he even attended the feminist group's reunions. It was only time until Megan fell for him too, he was a charming lad. Things were going great.

Until they weren't.

Megan got pregnant and despite the fact they were just students, they decided to have the baby. It probably was the reckless nature of youngsters. They felt indestructible, there was nothing that could bring them down. Sadly there was. As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Barnes found out they threatened to disinherit him.

Just a month before the birth Megan found herself alone. Alistair had disappeared without notice. It turns out he didn't love her that much.

Alexander May.

That was the victim's name.

Megan raised him on her own and gave him her own surname. After all, there was no father. She worked hard and stayed strong for her son, but inside she had been coping with a severe depression. All that sadness finally took a toll on her. She fell ill when Alex was 12 and passed away when he was 14. The teenager ran away before the social services took him away, he took after her deceased mother's name, and started living on the streets. He survived doing jobs here and there, not all of them legal and studied in the library when he had spare time, lived by the day. Then he met Adam. The older man had found the teenager trying to break his car's lock and instead of calling the police he took him in, showed him there was more to life than stealing cars and living on the streets. Alex had a world of opportunities ahead, but his destiny was different. Alistair received a call from the journalist, and out of fear of the story coming to light he killed his son. As simple as that. The columnist still hadn't found the politician's son, he only had a name that didn't figure anywhere, so they couldn't possibly link the death of a hobo with him.

Alistair Barnes had confessed as soon as the police appeared on his doorstep. It was an absolute success.

They were walking down the street after leaving Scotland Yard when John gripped the detective's hand and dragged him into a dark alley. Tension was visible in his jaw, the way he gritted his teeth, hands closed into fists. He made sure nobody could see them and before Sherlock could ask what was wrong the army doctor pushed him into a wall and crashed his lips into the detective's, efficiently shutting him up.  
They were kissing.

When Sherlock imagined their first kiss he thought about gentle lips slowly pressing together, shy moves and sweet whispers. He thought about fingers carefully slipping between his black curls and laboured breaths.

But there was nothing tender in this kiss.

John was forcefully sliding his mouth over his, tongue invading Sherlock's mouth without preamble. His hands were gripping the tall man's hair. It hurt. It felt like the doctor was devouring him, biting his lips with despair.

Sherlock didn't quite know what to do. This was not his first kiss, he had had to do it for a few cases. And Janine. But nothing like this.

It was overwhelming.

After a few seconds, Sherlock closed his eyes and started to move his lips. He desired to savour this moment, he had waited seven years for this. But it was too messy. They were not synchronized, John was moving too fast to Sherlock's tentative nips. The young Holmes was trying to concentrate on breathing, he was starting to get dizzy and his knees were shaking. John didn't stop pushing him, it was too intense. He pushed John away.

"John? S-stop. What are you doing?", Sherlock was trying to set his mind straight again. He needed answers. He couldn't let John kiss him without being sure he meant it. He would give anything to be with John, but he was not strong enough to be a one-night stand. He wouldn't be able to live knowing how it feels to really be with the army doctor, to be the centre of his attention and not being able to touch him ever again, not in that manner.

"John, you must know. I'm completely positive you are aware of my feelings for you". Grey eyes searched deep blue " So if this means nothing to you, please, let me go. We can still be friends, we'll forget this ever happened. I'll erase it from my mind palace" Sherlock would not forget this, ever, even if he tried. "But if it is your desire to change the nature of our relationship, do say so". The detective's voice broke in the last word. Unwanted hope was building inside him, just the thought of John returning his feelings made him tremble with overflowing emotion.

"Sherlock… Today's case made me realise future is an uncertain and cruel thing. We don't know if this is our last day together. I don't want to lose you ever again, we have already wasted so much time. I am a coward, love". Sherlock's breath caught at hearing the endearment fall out those thin lips "All my life I have ran away from the situations that may hurt me, I chose the easiest path but it turned out to be the hardest. You are my path, but I was too blind and scared to give in to you - " he took the detective's hands in his own " - I love you, Sherlock. Will you walk with me the time we have left?". As John finished the detective's eyes welled up with tears and could only nod in agreement, he knew he would cry if he such as tried to utter a single word. Humiliating. John just held him tightly.

Someone else - someone not Sherlock - would have noticed John's speech didn't sound so sincere. It was too overworked, too cheesy, it probably contained lines from movies or books, but Sherlock was like a child with a veil over his eyes in terms of love. He was so innocent and his feelings for John were so strong that he let himself believe this indisputable farse.

In the end, caring is not an advantage.

* * *

Days went by and John moved back to Baker street with Rosie. The spare room turned into the toddler's nursery and Sherlock's welcomed a new occupant. Sherlock had never experienced such state of elation, he smiled all the time, he took all the cases without complain, he even treated Anderson cordially and didn't insult him every chance he got. John and him now shared a bed, not in the sexual sense to Sherlock's dismay. That wouldn't tamper on his bliss, not for long anyway. The detective was a virgin but he was ready to leave that behind.

Get John to have sex with him was a lot harder than he thought.

Every time things between them heated up and hands roamed in search for more naked, warm skin John came up with an excuse to run away. At night, when they were sleeping John laid with his back to Sherlock. Were the young genius to initiate an attempt to cuddle he let himself be hugged for a few short minutes before he carefully extricated himself from the cage formed by the arms of his untrained lover.

There was an invisible wall between them and it was John the one who built it.

"John, I want to have sex with you". The detective blurted one morning as they were having breakfast. John's eyes widened in surprise and looked at him in disbelief.

" Rosie is here! You know you cannot say that kind of things in front of her, she's in a repeat-everything-she-hears phase" he continued feeding her daughter, he didn

" Oh, come on, she doesn't understand a thing of what we're saying. She's a brilliant child but you as a doctor should know that kids their age understand individual sounds not an entire sentence. And don't try to distract me, is it because I'm a virgin? I admit I'm not an expert on this matter but I have done my research. The internet has endless information about sexual intercourse, some of it extremely bizarre but I'm not opposed to try if you were into that kind of… stuff ".

" Today. Ok? We'll talk when I get back from surgery" the answer was poor at best. This whole situation made Sherlock feel inadequate in so many ways. Since the start of their new arrangement nothing had changed as much as the young Holmes expected, John barely talked and only addressed to him if it was strictly necessary, he seemed to avoid touching him and spent most of the time at work. John had never worked this much. And Sherlock couldn't stop thinking it was because of him.

John left for his shift at the clinic and Sherlock stayed with Rosie. He fed her, changed her, played violin for her, she seemed to enjoy the last task immensely as she couldn't stop emitting little cries of contentment. He never imagined himself with kids but after Rosie he could not fathom a world without her. She did not judge him when he rambled for hours or when he accidentally burned the milk. Rosamund loved him just the way he was, the way only a newborn could love the ones that took care of them, unconditionally. Nevertheless, love her or not, Rosie was exhausting in strange new levels and when she fell asleep after her midday feed Sherlock relaxed. He was laying on the sofa just for the sake of regaining energy, he didn't even have the strength to enter his mind palace. He was slowly falling sleep when he heard his phone beep. It was a message.

 **Come pick me up with Rosie after work, we'll go to Angelo's. xx -JW**

The genius prepared Rosie and dressed her with layers and layers of cloth. It was not that cold, London had seen more bitter winters but the detective couldn't help being afraid of the little girl catching a cold. Just as they were leaving the flat Sherlock received another message, this time from Lestrade.

 **Adam Kane has committed suicide. Found him in his bathroom, overdose, he used painkillers. I don't know why but I saw this coming. Body's in the morgue, you can come to confirm the cause of death. GL**

Sherlock's body grew cold as he read the short notice. He felt a shiver run up his spine. He can't say he didn't expect this, Mr. Kane had shown all the signs of someone with suicidal tendencies but he had believed he would live for his young lover. Or so he had hoped. The detective inexplicably saw himself reflected in the older man and couldn't avoid wondering if he would do the same were John to die. He knew the answer. It felt like a bad omen.

He absently hailed a cab and gave the cabbie the address. Rosie could sense the aura of uneasiness that surrounded Sherlock and touched the man's cheek with a chubby hand. Moved by the child's attempt at comfort, the detective smiled and sweetly kissed her cheek. He decided to forget all his insecurities for once and trust in John and their love. Their relationship was not perfect but they were just getting used to each other and, hell, they had been together for just one month and a half, time would heal the wounds they still carried in their hearts.

Sherlock noticed the cab slowing down and saw they had arrived. He carelessly threw some notes at the driver and started walking towards the hospital's entrance. John, punctual as always, came out throwing his brown leather satchel over his shoulder. Sherlock smiled, he felt his cheeks fill with warmth. He was blushing. Sherlock hated himself for being so juvenile. He was behaving like some lovesick teenager! If Mycroft could see me right now… Sherlock thought with disdain, he straightened his back and tried to contain that giddy feeling he got every time he looked at the army doctor. He waved when John spotted them.

"Hey there, pumpkin." John kissed Rosie's head and the little girl threw herself into her father's arms. " Hi, Sherlock." the doctor added curtly, cleared his throat and turned to face a short woman Sherlock hadn't realised had been there all the time. "Lucy, this is Sherlock, my flatmate - " the detective wasn't surprised by John's introduction, he probably wasn't ready to out himself to his colleagues and understood the doctor's position "- and this beautiful angel here is Rosamund, my daughter."

"Pleased to meet you, Rosamund, your father has been talking about you nonstop, but I have to say you've surpassed my expectations. You are the cutest girl in London!" the woman, Lucy, spoke to Rosie with a sickeningly saccharine tone. At the same time, Sherlock's brain was shortcutting. He deduce things from her hair, her lips, the way she looked at the doctor. It couldn't be. Sherlock felt faint. "Hello, Sherlock. Thank you for bringing Rosamund here, meeting her is very important to me. John told me about her mother. A real tragedy."

"Let's go to Angelo, I have a table at 7:30pm" John cut in, obviously uncomfortable with the current topic. Sherlock was gradually coming out of the haze. The pain and the anger bubbling inside him.

"John, ¿What is going on? I thought we were going together, just the three of us".

"Don't be rude, I told you Lucy was coming today - " Everything was so confusing, the world was spinning around Sherlock, he could barely breath. " - it's time for her to meet this little bean. After all, two months is time enough to be sure and besides, she was dying to meet her." John's face had an strange grin, his voice full of mockery.

Sherlock could feel a horrible pressure in his chest, he was fighting to get a simple word out of his mouth, he had suddenly lost the ability to speak. "Please… - " He whispered brokenly, he could feel a panic attack coming, his breath shallow. "John, talk to me, please. I don't understand. Tell me I'm wrong, tell me what I'm seeing in her, in you, is just a mistake." his eyes were burning.

" ¿What do you see Sherlock? " John was unrecognizable, he didn't know this man.

" Wo-women, mid-thirties, one- no - two brothers all of them younger than her, lives alone in a small flat with a lot of light, doesn't have pets, it is clear she has engaged in sexual intercourse about 20 minutes ago - " Lucy gasped in embarrassment, his skin turning an unflattering bright red " - it is visible in her nails and the blush in her cheeks, she has been seeing someone for some time now, it looks serious taking into account the care she has put into her outfit and make up today." Sherlock took a deep breath, the tears in his eyes threatening to fall, making his humiliation more evident " With you, John. She's in a relationship with you and it has been going on for two months." The detective could feel life dripping out of him, this was his death sentence. Lucy let out a quiet "incredible" as he finished his deduction. "Lucy, ¿can you take Rosie to get an ice cream? I need to speak with Sherlock for a sec - " John gave her the child and smiled charmingly " - Thank you, love." That was the same word he used with Sherlock and the detective could only scream in his mind Stupid, stupid, stupid! He felt himself becoming sick, he had the sudden urge to vomit from hearing the endearment.

"Sherlock, spot on as always. Who would have thought you could be so blind for other things, or more accurately, for someone. If only Moriarty had known…tsk, tsk, tsk… it would have been so easy for him to burn the heart out of you. But he didn't, I did." he licked his lips and smiled cruelly "You know why I'm doing this, right? This is for Mary. You took her away from me and from Rosie. She'll never know her mum because of you, you killed her. It should have been you. Instead you are here begging for someone to love you, to take your virginity. Disgusting. No one can love you, Sherlock, not really. You are a freak, a self-absorbed arrogant prick. And least of all fuck you, ¿have you seen yourself? Every time you touched me I had to contain the urge to vomit" John was attacking all of Sherlock's insecurities, one by one. They were mostly lies, but John knew the detective was believing every single syllable he uttered. "You should never have come back, you should have stayed dead." the soldier's eyes were wide and red, full of rage. Sherlock was trembling, tears cascading down his face, the pain was so bad. This is the disadvantage Mycroft was talking about, to give your heart to someone who doesn't want it and letting them do with it whatever they please. Even destroy it in the most vicious way.

"John - " the young Holmes chokes between ragged breaths. "don't do this! I love you…" His view got blurry, suddenly his body felt tones heavier, there was an acute pain in his left arm and up his neck. Heart attack. I'm having a stroke. Before he blacked out he heard John's voice. Goodbye, Sherlock.


	2. Tainted Love

**Chapter 2:** **Tainted love**

 _Sterile._

The air he was breathing had an undertone of bleach. There were few places that smelled as such, he had a list with all of them in his mind palace. He could be in Molly's lab right now, taking a nap on one of the free autopsy tables but the cannula shoved down his throat seemed to disagree, as well as the stiff mattress he was laying on, the catheter dangling from his arm, the beeping coming from the machines, the indistinct chatter of the nurses outside his room.

 _French_.

They were talking in french. _Ah..._ This had to be Mycroft's idea. Always the overprotective brother. As much as they pretended to hate each other, in the end, after everything, love remained. There had been mistakes and bad choices but they never intended to harm their sibling. Mycroft was Sherlock's older brother and he would anything in his power to keep him safe, even if sometimes that meant to put him in danger. _How ironic_. To say their relationship is complicated is an understatement. However, what mattered at the moment was that he was alive. Disgustingly alive. Hatefully alive. He wished this sweet darkness surrounding him was death. Peace. The opportunity to forget everything, forgive everyone and live in an idealized world, the promised land. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew if Heaven existed he wouldn't be allowed entrance, he would probably be doomed to burn in the flames of Hell.

 _Thank God_ _-_ the detective indulged himself with the pun _\- I'm an Atheist._

Sherlock tried not to struggle with the foreign object in his mouth, he had to stay calm and get used to the feeling. If he had a panic attack he would most surely choke and the nurses would put him to sleep again. And that he didn't want.

He slowly opened his eyes, it felt like his eyelids had been glued together and it took an awful long time to adjust to the light streaming through the window. It was sunny outside. He would have preferred London's gloomy weather a thousand time over. It would have matched his current emotional state more accurately. But instead he had this perfect day, he could almost hear families laughing together, parents playing with their children in the park making most the of the sun and warm temperature. They were laughing at him.

John and Rosamund.

He thought he had had everything. But now it was gone. He had believed the universe would let him get what he wanted this time. His chance to be happy after an existence of hiding his true self from everyone. However, he was destined to a life of emotional isolation. It felt like a curse, to die alone without a single soul who cared. From a very young age Sherlock had had to struggle with loneliness and rejection from his peers and the only thing that helped him get through the darkest hours was hope. He prayed for the day where he would find someone that loved him as much as he needed to be loved, someone who cared if he lived or died. The detective would never admit it to anyone but he yearned to feel the warmth of love, the touch of a tender lover, a smile that could light up his insides, the flicker of devotion in his beloved eyes.

John had been a delusion. The army doctor had not honored him with a single thing he had pleaded for. During their short 'affair' Sherlock had not felt that warmth even once, contrarily he felt his chest fill with an uncomfortable cold sensation that became more intense as days passed. Restlessness invaded him, anxiety followed him throughout the day, breathing became a hard task, suddenly air felt like Mercury* filling his lungs.

That chance was just a mirage.

Sherlock didn't really see a point in staying alive anymore, not that he ever did. He wanted to die, to vanish from this planet full of idiots. He saw an opportunity to live in John so he had given him everything. The soldier turned out to be a double-edged sword, he had the key to Sherlock's happiness but he could also take it all away from him. Now he had nothing. He was so dependent of the soldier he would probably die if he didn't see he him again. _How romantic, to die of heartbreak. Shakespeare would be proud._

A sound teared him away from his thoughts. Someone had entered the room and was now clearing his throat. A strong wave of men's cologne hit him. It was an expensive perfume. _Pompous bastard_.

" Baby brother, It is good to see you conscious at last." Mycroft sounded undeniably tired, he was not wearing a jacket, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. _Has not slept in 4 days. Always the worrywart._

 _"_ You've come out of your sedative induced coma a few times, couldn't even utter a single sound that resembled a word of the English language, or any existing language for all I know. Nevertheless, you did manage to say _your doctor_ 's name...- " he stopped as soon as he realized how accelerated Sherlock's heartbeat became when he mentioned Dr. Watson. " You had a heart attack. It isn't at all surprising considering your past drug dependency, your on-off relationship with cigarettes and the 'care' you put into maintaining the _transport_ , as you so call it. It was only a matter of time and a bit of sentiment. And you, dear brother, seem to have a lot of that ". He paused and gave the detective a side glance. " The damage was not too extensive, you were seen to with swiftness as you fainted in front of a clinic. Felicitous. The physicians in charge of your case heavily advise you acquire healthier sleeping patterns and diet. Allow me to call a nurse so they can extubate you."

Mycroft left the room, he could hear him talking French in the corridor. He came back with a short ginger nurse following him. The lady approached the hospital gurney and initiated the protocol to take the tube out of his throat. Once he was liberated from it he noticed how dry his mouth felt, he accepted the glass of water offered to him and drank. The relief was immediate.

"We need to talk about what happened. ¿Do you want me to take _care_ of John Watson?" The atmosphere had suddenly shifted, Mycroft turned to look at him straight in the eye. _He's trying to deduce me._

"There's nothing to talk about. John didn't love me and wanted revenge for Mary's death. He plotted against me, built a plan to destroy me and was successful. I'm sure Moriarty would be jealous." He answered with a croaky, trembling voice. The mock was evident in the last words.

"In the end it was John Hamish Watson the one to burn the heart out of you. I warned you, all lives end... all hearts are broken... caring is not an advantage".

"As much as I hate myself for admitting this... I should have listened to you. Do not make me repeat myself. I know you heard me perfectly."

"So... What's next for the great Sherlock Holmes? Are you planning on returning to London and keep working with Scotland Yard? We're in Paris, I'm sure you've noticed. Mother and Father are here too, they are in the hotel refreshing themselves at the moment. They have barely rested. They are concerned about your wellbeing. And not only physically, they know how sensitive you are. After all, you were a very emotional child. You should expect a visit from our progenitors in about ...-" Mycroft paused to look at the watch in his right wrist. "- 35 minutes. I believe that will be enough time to discuss your _future_."

Mycroft walked until he placed himself in front of the window. The warm sunlight streaming through made his ginger hair shine like bonfire, it also exposed his thinning hair and receding hairline. His pallid skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Posture slightly bent. His shoulders stooped forward, as if the weight of his brothers suffering rested all upon him. He would never forgive Watson for doing this to Sherlock. He shouldn't have let him in.

"I'm not going back. Not to London, not to Scotland Yard, not to 221B. Please take care of Mrs. Hudson. I expect John to keep living at Baker Street. He does not have the income to buy another house. Maybe he will move, eventually. If he does, make sure Mrs. Hudson receives the amount corresponding to the rent monthly. As for me... I wish to take up on your offer. That mission in Serbia. Is it still vacant?"

"Sherlock, that mission was your sentence for killing Magnussen. It was a suicide mission. Do not give everything up because of this _incident_ , you are an invaluable asset to society. Your brain... you could change the world. And... It would break my heart to see you go." This blatant demonstration of sentiment from Mycroft was so rare, this probably would not happen ever again.

"I cannot live without him, Mycroft." Sherlock's sincerity astounded him. The young detective was no longer hiding behind invisible walls, he had nothing to loose. "I gave him everything I had, everything. And now I have nothing left, I don't know how to keep going, I feel like a helpless pup abandoned by its mother in a jungle full of predators. Doomed. There is nothing you can do, Mycroft. I had given up long before I met John, he just gave me a reason to live. I know this will wound Mother and Father deeply, but it is better this way. If you want to spare them some pain you could come up with a different story, tell them I ran away to start a new life somewhere else. Send them a few letters periodically, I could write them for you."

The silence in the room was disturbed by the muffled voices of doctors and nurses, the chirping of the birds near the window, the wheels turning inside Mycroft's head. It was obvious he was thinking of a way to save his brother. A rather difficult enterprise when that person didn't wish to be saved. Suddenly he remembered. He remembered something he read in John's file the first day he became of aware of his and his brother's newfound friendship. The idea was twisted at best, it could be considered unethical even. However, he would do anything to keep his brother alive.

"What if I told you that anyone who enrolls in the army is required to give away samples of sperm or ovum in case they die in action? And I have access to John's ." He spoke slowly, trying not to scare the young man in the bed. It was clear Sherlock wasn't following. " Dear brother, I know you hoped to have kids one day with John. And as a carrier -" Sherlock looked taken aback, as if Mycroft had slapped him across the face. He stopped him.

"NO! No, no, no. This is cruel even for you. How could I have John's child without him knowing it? I would not forgive myself. I desired to have kids with him, most ardently. But I would not resort to this as a revenge."

" Why not? He didn't think twice before doing this to you. You say you cannot live without him, you would have a part of him if we used his sample. His baby. Your baby. This baby wouldn't be a revenge it would be your lifesaver. I do not care in the least about John Watson. If you having his kid means keeping you alive then I have nothing say. I know how much you wanted it, I have seen your browser history. Quite a research you were conducting." Sherlock turned bright red at the thought of the long hours spent in front of his computer investigating about male pregnancy, carriers, cycles, side effects of suppressors, etc. He had wanted to talk about this matter with John, they never got the chance. They hadn't even been intimate, not once. Sherlock remained a virgin.

The detective stayed silent for a long time, mixed feelings were invading his mind palace. He craved to have John's child, at least that way he would have a part of him. This new being would be his reason to live, he would give them all the love he always felt missing in his own life, he would make them feel adored and cherished. He raised the arm that wasn't attached to the IV and placed it on his flat stomach. His breath hitched and his eyes filled with tears. It was his deepest buried desire, he had secretly dreamt about it night after night. But it was wrong, he wouldn't do that to the man he loved.

"He doesn't have to know. You could live here in Paris."

Before he could voice his decision to his brother, their parents burst through the door. They appeared to be elated and relieved to see him awake and conscious.

"Oh, my baby! We were so worried about you, we still are. How are you feeling?" His mother was all over, touching his hair, stroking his cheek as his father stayed silently in the back.

"Violet, leave the boy be. He is still recovering, we should let him sleep so he can heal."

As his parents kept fussing around him he turned to look at Mycroft. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek as he nodded curtly.

He had made a decision.


End file.
